"If you start yakking about polka-dots, it’s over"

ANY STORY about a sister goes far, far back. Back to the time when you’re both just preliminary sketches of the people you’ll become,says Aida Austin.

And up here on the plane, I’m thinking about my sister in London, waiting for me down in Arrivals.

I’m thinking about those preliminary sketches: my sister as a nervy 10-year-old and me at 15, taking her home from school every day on the London Underground and how desperate she was to get home to Mum and the safety of the known.

And I’m thinking about how that tentative little sketch of my sister got all coloured-in and became a full picture: 45, gay, with a year-round tan, immaculate apartment and White Company bath products.Who has a heart as soft as butter but last suffered a fool gladly back in 1647.

I’m thinking about how as siblings, you always have each other but somewhere along the line, if you’re lucky enough, there comes a point when you really find each other too. And I’m thinking about how she loves me, and what that feels like.

And that it doesn’t feel smooth, like chocolate or sweet and sticky like honey, but more like brown bread. Solid, reliable, necessary brown bread. With a kick of wasabi.

“Were you waiting long?” I say in Arrivals.

“I’m an old hand at waiting,” she says, “all that hanging around in Hammersmith Tube, freezing cold, frantic to get home, while you talked boy-bollocks with your friends. At least it’s warm in here. We have to stop in Waitrose to get some stuff. I thought I’d make spaghetti puttanesca. I’m cooking.”

“Lovely,” I say, walking towards the car, “I can’t wait to get into pyjamas.”

“It’s all set up on the end of my bed,” she says, “pyjamas, dressing-gown, cosy socks and fresh towel. I’ll run you a bath while you unpack, then you can watch Scott and Bailey while I cook. I’ve recorded the series. How are you? And I want to know how you are, not your bloody chandeliers. Vanessa’s coming for dinner on Thursday, so you can save the chandelier chat for her.”

“Am I allowed to tell you how the vintage fair went?”

“You have a 30-second window, starting now,” she says, looking at her watch. “But if you start yakking about cabbage roses or polka-dots, it’s over.”

While we wait in the queue for the carpark barrier to lift, I yak against the clock, careful to avoid using any alienating terms when my sister cuts me short with an expletive. Her first expletive is much worse than her second: “Bitch!” shouted loudly in my ear.

“Look at that bloody Nazi in the blue Estate,” she shouts, “she just cut straight into the queue — right at the front. Stop with the polka-dots. I need to concentrate.”

In Waitrose, I help her pack groceries into bags until she says, “Leave it to me. Christ, we really were separated at birth,” and dispatches me to find capers. I wander off, while she strikes up a conversation with the lady on the till about the wisdom of bag-packing in an orderly fashion. I look back. The lady is nodding in perfect agreement. As well she might.

At home, she runs me a bath. It is hot and miraculously fragrant and I enjoy fooling around with pots of unguents.

I sit on her white sofa in clean pyjamas and dressing-gown, and my sister hands me the remote controls, a soft throw in which to wrap myself, and a glass of wine.

“Moltepulciano,” she says, “your favourite. Now don’t move. From now on, you’re on holiday. Use the coaster.”

The puttanesca is delicious and I’m not allowed to load the dishwasher.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, “I’m here for a week.”

“You’re on holiday,” she says, “I’m spoiling you, all week.”

“Don’t be daft,” I say, “I can load a dishwasher.”

“I know you can. I’ve seen you do it hundreds of times. It’s hideous.”

She won’t let me make up my bed. I watch her plump pillows and turn the covers down.

“Now get in,” she says, handing me a hot-water bottle. She puts a glass of water and some posh moisturiser on the bedside table and tucks me in.

“This is heaven,” I say.

“You can have that moisturiser by the way,” she says, standing at the door, looking fondly at me, all tucked-up.

“Nunnight,” I say.

“Love you,” she says, closing the door, and just when I’m thinking brown bread somehow isn’t the same without wasabi, she says, “but if you use my new Kiehl’s Midnight Recovery Concentrate again, I’ll f*****g kill you.”